


Oneros

by Whiggity



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Beast!Wirt - Freeform, F/M, POTU-verse, Stress Dreams, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whiggity/pseuds/Whiggity
Summary: Beatrice has a very confusing dream.(For "Prince of the Unknown")
Relationships: Beatrice/Wirt (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Oneros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xathira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/gifts).



> [Read POTU Part 21, chapter 1 first!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26989291/chapters/65879935)

When she dreams, she dreams of waking up.

In the lantern-dim, Beatrice peeps her eyes open across Wirt’s ear, and a warm bloom of relief immediately floods her belly. After so many months of suffering, of running and hiding and choking on fear, their collective wishes have finally come true: he's back to normal. The teenage boy curled at her side is in his socks and sleep-clothes, not Bestial, just gangly and in need of a haircut. She presses a hand over her mouth to keep her welling joy inside. The nightmare is finally over, or maybe the last half-year had never really happened at all. It doesn’t matter. They are both human again, both safe, both close and warm in this barn in Appleonia. She muffles laughter by nuzzling back down against his arm.

“Hey,” he murmurs. He’s been awake this whole time.

“Hey,” Beatrice whispers back, not fully in control of the tenderness running under her voice. She doesn’t sound like herself, and she certainly isn’t acting like herself. Her stomach feels tight and her hands are bold. She slings her arm across his hip without a care, and it falls at just such an angle that her palm happens to come to rest on his—

No. She isn’t acting like herself at all.

To hold him in her arms feels as easy as slipping into a warm bath. She's flush against his back, skin-to-skin, breathing deeply as they both start to move. There is a script to this play, and Beatrice’s body knows the blocking even if she hasn’t quite learned all her lines yet. The actors are both double-cast and the set is changing more quickly than she can keep up. The roof opens above them to reveal a sky studded by mother-of-pearl and planets which rove across the universe as daringly as her hands across his chest. Her hips cant. Her bones ache in anticipation. She presses her nose into the back of his neck, tempting Wirt to roll and face her—but when he does, her excitement is frozen in her throat. He has antlers at his ears again, she sees now, and stars in his eyes. The glare of his gaze is bright enough to leave her dazed. 

She wants to cry, but since that isn’t acceptable, she gets angry instead.

He just can’t make anything simple, can he? She's laying herself out so vulnerably for him in this way, in this place—how dare he choose to pay back her trust by becoming the Beast again? For months, she’s been putting up with his bullshit, his tantrums, his lantern, his tether, his forest. For months she’s been caught in his undertow. Does she do anything at all other than think about _him_ anymore? Does she do anything other than worry? The more Beatrice dwells on it, the more furious she becomes, until her lather is so thick that the only outlet she has left is to kiss him.

His lips taste like pearl-onion soup. She puts a hand on each antler and forces him supine. She covers his mouth and tears at his shirt and traps his arms and rolls on top. The contact feels good, but to finally be in a position of power over him is close to orgastic.

“Fuck you,” she grunts into a hard grind against his hips. He throws back his chin. “Fuck you.” She wants to fight him again. She wants to _brawl._ Beatrice channels her violence through her frame, seeking to bear him down into the very ground, and Wirt accepts this because he knows he deserves it. _“Fuck_ you,” she whines, digging her fingernails as deep as she can into his scarred collarbone, run through with black like bruising.

He raises his gaze to hers, pleading. His eyes are too bright to look straight-on, but she’ll blind herself before he can _make_ her look away. 

“Fuck me,” Wirt gasps, and she does just that. Her lack of experience or expectations means absolutely nothing. She fucks him as hard as he’d fucked her by upending her family and her year and her life. She fucks him as hard as he’d fucked her by pretending to be a monster, and forcing her to hate him, and making her believe that he no longer loved her.

She couldn’t possibly fuck him as hard as he’d fucked her by becoming the Beast, but it feels very good to try.

Some part of her knows she's dreaming. Another part knows exactly where the dream ends and reality begins, at a firm rub in the space between her thighs. All of her wants to dominate him, all of her wants to punish him, all of her wants to release this fury and tension from her body and just— move— _on_ —

Lightning strikes in the night. A door swings open in her belly and fire licks her toes. Beatrice chokes and gyres. Wirt repeats her name _(“Beatrice? Beatrice?”)_ and she throws back her head and closes her eyes so that she won’t be tempted to look at him as she—

—wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's supposed to be spelled _oneiros _it's a pun__


End file.
